


Everyone Wants the D and by D I Mean Dwalin

by RarePairFairy



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Dwalin Can't Do Feelings, Dwalin and Thorin being bros, Emotional Constipation, Innuendo, M/M, M/M/M, Multipairing, Sign Language, bagginshield
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:36:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RarePairFairy/pseuds/RarePairFairy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So I decided to see if I could take one of the least romantic characters in The Hobbit, and find a way to pair him off with a bunch of different characters.</p><p>1: Dwalin/Bilbo. Not because you're cute (and you are), but because you're brave<br/>2: Dwalin/Bifur. It's easier to say "i love you" in sign language.<br/>3: Dwalin/Bofur. Why are you so charming when everything about you is annoying<br/>4: Dwalin/Dori. You look after me, i'll look after you.<br/>5: Dwalin/Fili/Kili. You've stolen my heart. No seriously, give it back.<br/>6: Dwalin/Ori. I've always been attracted to men but i've always wanted a wife. You'll do.<br/>7: Dwalin/Thorin. Friends with benefits? More like long-term-relationship with benefits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It made a sad sort of sense that the moment Dwalin fell in love was several years after he’d decided it just wasn’t going to happen. He’d come to believe such a thing was no longer possible, not after the battles he had seen, the losses he had suffered and the way he had come to built his life around duty, fighting, honour. The life of a through-and-through warrior.

He was no monk, of course. He had had dalliances in his youth, including a brief and thrilling interlude that he and Thorin no longer spoke about. He knew the experience of infatuation. Up until recent decades he had become attracted to the occasional handsome or beautiful individual. But he had never fallen in love. And now he was almost past his prime, not in terms of fighting but certainly in terms of romance.

So this, naturally, was where he stood when he discovered that he was rapidly becoming obsessed with a hobbit.

Bilbo was short. It was not often that Dwalin got to call someone of another race short. His hair was short. His patience, apparently, was also short. His hands were fine and unscarred, without callouses or evidence of any kind of hard work. His feet were perpetually bare, and his travelling clothes were almost stupidly light. He was naïve, and occasionally just plain silly. Dwalin was also pretty sure that idiocy played an equal role to bravery in Bilbo’s leaping to Thorin’s defence when the king’s life was threatened.

But, here he was. Trying futilely to eradicate thoughts of Bilbo from his mind. The hobbit was so … frail. Principled and noble, apparently, and at least he turned out to be genuinely “remarkably light on his feet”, so he’d probably make a worthwhile burglar after all. But he had no idea how to wield that little elvish dagger and he made up for his unexpected value by being dangerously vulnerable.

Dwalin didn’t know what to do about his feelings, which was the worst part. If he could dismiss them, that would make it easy, but he couldn’t. Bilbo had crept unseen into his heart and was lodged there like an arrowhead. He tried distancing himself from Bilbo, but at first he was cross because Bilbo didn’t appear to notice the distancing, and then he was put completely out of sorts when Bilbo _did_ notice, and approached one evening to awkwardly ask if perhaps he’d done something wrong because really, he never meant to cause any offence, but if he had he’d like a chance to apologize.

Dwalin couldn’t just accept his feelings either. These were amongst the worst possible scenarios in which to fall in love with someone. He couldn’t court Bilbo properly even if they weren’t travelling across Middle Earth to return to Erebor to confront a dragon. Bilbo wasn’t even the same race. He wasn’t a soldier, or a lady. He wasn’t going to stay in Erebor, assuming they won and assuming they all lived. Following his heart’s desire and trying to woo Bilbo would be a bad idea, even if he _wanted_ to give in to love.

Bilbo, as it turned out, had other ideas.

 

They were on their second day staying at Beorn’s when Bilbo walked over to Dwalin, a sense of purpose in his gait. Dwalin had settled himself away from the others and was sitting indoors, in a private corner away from windows and natural light and Beorn’s strange animals.

‘I know I’ve asked this before,’ Bilbo began carefully. Dwalin remained in a half-lean with his back to the wall, frowning, as Bilbo stood before him in his battered red corduroy coat and button-less waistcoat. He really did look charmingly dishevelled.

‘I know there is something going on. And it clearly involves me, and only me, since you haven’t changed the way you speak to any of the others, but you barely talk to me now at all. I just want to know why.’ He said it in the firmest voice a hobbit could muster, sincere and conjured both at once.

‘Nothing you need to worry yourself about,’ Dwalin said dismissively.

‘It is worrying me,’ Bilbo insisted. ‘And it’s not going to stop worrying me until I know why you can’t look at me without looking angry.’

Dwalin intensified his frown. It usually worked to scare off Fili and Kili when they were being pests, but Bilbo stood his ground, despite shrinking a little where he stood.

‘It’s no concern of yours,’ Dwalin said firmly.

‘But it does concern me, doesn’t it,’ Bilbo said. It wasn’t a question. Dwalin was thrown, for a moment. On one hand, Bilbo’s concern was flattering and it made Dwalin abnormally pleased about being badgered.

‘Perhaps,’ Dwalin gruffly admitted.

Bilbo hesitated. He bit his lower lip, and one foot pressed lightly on the other. For a moment, he looked bashful. He looked truly adorable.

‘I’m not sure whether I should ask,’ Bilbo confessed quietly. ‘If I’m wrong, I’ll look like a fool.’

Dwalin held his breath.

‘And I’d hate to insult you by accident, but … maybe, if I ask it, it would be easier than making you say it? Particularly if you didn’t want to say it,’ Bilbo said, words coming out in a stumbling rush now that he had begun to introduce his theory. Dwalin’s heart began to beat quickly. He felt young for the first time in a long time. He didn’t even feel this way before a battle any more. He hoped he wasn’t blushing. Thorin would never let him live it down.

‘It’s just, I’ve seen people act this way before, and you may laugh at me if I’m mistaken, at least I’d rather you laugh at me than be angry with me for assuming it,’ Bilbo said, and Dwalin had to cross his arms. Bilbo hushed immediately.

‘Just say what you want to say,’ Dwalin said impatiently. His voice came out, fortunately, much less shaky than he felt on the inside.

‘Is it perhaps the case that … what I mean is, do you, or are you … fond of me?’ Bilbo said, and his face the moment he got the words out betrayed how badly he wished he could rephrase the sentence. Dwalin’s heart kept pounding in his chest.

‘What d’you mean by that?’ he asked, stalling for time as he wondered desperately what he should say. Had he been so transparent? Had any of the others noticed?

‘I don’t mean … well yes, I do mean, and what I mean is, have you become maybe fonder of me than you would be of a friend?’ Bilbo asked, face slightly pinched as he tried to word, as properly as a proper hobbit could, his question. _Do you want to kiss me? Are you attracted to me?_

_Have you been having dreams about fucking me senseless that have you waking at all hours, panicking for several minutes because you think you might have moaned my name aloud in your slumber?_

Dwalin uncrossed his arms. There was no escaping it now. If Bilbo had noticed it, he’d noticed it.

‘No need to choke on your words, master Baggins,’ Dwalin said. ‘I’d no intention of wooing you.’

‘Ah,’ Bilbo said. It had no air of finality to it, and betrayed no disappointment or relief. His expression barely changed. Dwalin wondered how much Bilbo expected him to say.

‘What I _mean_ is,’ Dwalin grunted, imitating Bilbo’s flustered tone, ‘I know your feelings don’t reflect mine, and I have no intention of burdening you.’

At that, Bilbo’s eyes suddenly narrowed. It was his turn to cross his arms. Dwalin balked a little. He had expected relief, not annoyance.

‘Well at least give me a chance to respond before deciding for yourself how I feel about it,’ Bilbo huffed indignantly. ‘It’s all very well and good to call it impossible, but if you’re going to be cross with me for rejecting you, you ought to make sure I’ve actually rejected you first. Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’m really very fond of you, and the idea of hurting you, deliberately or not, upsets me quite a bit.’

Then Bilbo seemed to come back to himself, going from stomping mad to foot-shuffling and shy.

‘Of course, really, any unsuitability exists on my side rather than on yours. You are, after all, noble and a skilled warrior and highly thought of among your peers, and I’m … well. Well, it’s already been very much established what I am,’ Bilbo murmured, and Dwalin wondered frantically, _what did we establish? When?? Do you still think you’re useless?_

‘And perhaps, if I haven’t extended any gesture of affection towards you, it’s not because I feel no affection for you, but because I am very aware of my own unsuitability, and I didn’t want to put you to the trouble of explaining to me why a union would be inappropriate. So really, there’s no need to let me down gently by offering me an out like, “I know you don’t feel the same,” because hobbits hold honesty above dignity, especially when it comes to matters of the heart, and I’d feel much more comfortable if you’d just admit that I’m not the sort of person you’d want to bind yourself to.’

Foot-shuffling and shy once more made way to irritated blustering, and if Dwalin wasn’t so cross by the time Bilbo finished, he’d think it was cute. Like a kitten hissing and spitting at a dog.

But he was cross. “Not the sort of person”? Did Bilbo think Dwalin was too posh to marry a hobbit?

‘I don’t know what you must think of me to say something like that,’ Dwalin growled, when it was clear Bilbo was done growling at him. ‘I’m not the type to look down on someone, even if _you_ think I am, and I _was_ being honest when I said I didn’t want to burden you. But if it offends your _dignity_ so much to place yourself on the same level as me, maybe we’re not so well suited after all.’

He knew he was probably letting his anger get the better of him. An unfamiliar, frightening sense of _wrong, you’re saying the wrong thing, say something else, take it back, quick!_ was overcoming his mind, and he had never wanted to take anything back before and he didn’t know how. But Bilbo’s face was falling, and Dwalin was suddenly unsure of what to say, and he wasn’t used to feeling unsure either, and maybe if this was what love did to people, he ought to fight harder to get it out of his system, because he didn’t like it. Not one bit.

‘Is that all it takes, then? You’re not actually willing to try?’

_I am. I promise. No, I’m not. It’s too hard. But I want to, I swear I do, I swear._

Bilbo cleared his throat and looked at his feet. Here was a look Dwalin could recognize, and he hated it. It was the look of someone shielding themselves from a blow they had already received.

‘Well. That’s all right then. Never mind. I’m glad we’ve hashed it all out. Let’s not speak of this again.’

And then he turned on his heel and walked away, and his walk was stiff, like he had been struck and was trying not to show it. There had been confusion in his eyes, and badly guarded pain, as if Bilbo didn’t know how to deal with the situation either except to run from it. And maybe Bilbo had been willing to try, very willing, and the reason he was retreating and so hurt now was because he had genuinely expected that Dwalin would be willing to try too.

Dwalin wanted to run after him. He wanted to apologize, offer to, oh, what should he offer? The truth? He thought about Bilbo all the time. He worried about him. He wished Bilbo joy, he just wasn’t sure he was the one to give it. He loved Bilbo, he just didn’t know how to love, because he’d never been in love before.

Should he just give up on words, because words were hard, and sweep Bilbo off his feet when the others weren’t looking and give some substance to his dreams, even if it was just the taste of Bilbo’s lips? Should he offer his bedroll for the night, or would that come across as too forward, too temporary? Should he offer something more permanent?

Or was it safer, for him and for Bilbo, even if it was more painful in the long run, to just _not try_?

He sat at the other end of the table to Bilbo at dinner that night. He couldn’t pay enough attention to Gloin or Nori to participate fully in their conversation, and he knew that Thorin was shooting him glances. Bilbo too, probably. Bofur tried to keep Bilbo’s attention with jokes and lewd stories, but Bilbo’s heart wasn’t in his smiles or his replies. And Dwalin couldn’t keep his eyes off Bilbo for more than a few minutes.

Thorin subtly cuffed his elbow as they were standing, and indicated with a tilt of his head to the verandah leading out the back. Dwalin followed.

When they were alone, Thorin frowned.

‘I wouldn’t have thought you were the type, old friend,’ Thorin said in a subdued voice. Dwalin sat at the very edge of the verandah and searched for his pipe.

‘The type to fancy a hobbit, or the type to mope?’

‘Neither,’ Thorin said, and sat beside him. He offered his pouch of pipeweed. Dwalin took a small pinch and tamped it down with his forefinger. Their conversations were usually short, especially if those conversations were about feelings. He wanted to go to bed and sleep as soon as possible, and hopefully descend into oblivion this time instead of dreaming of soft curly hair and those big sad eyes.

‘I did not think you would deny yourself something you truly wanted,’ Thorin said delicately. ‘Let alone deprive another.’

Dwalin paused. He lit his pipe and puffed for a moment before risking a look. Thorin was outright staring at him. Dwalin rolled his eyes.

‘Fond of him yerself?’ he asked, borrowing Bilbo’s term for it.

‘I would like to see him happy. He did save my life, at great personal risk. And if I could see you happy for once as well, I’d consider it killing two birds with one stone.’

Typical Thorin. Turning something tender into something brutal, first chance he got.

‘Any suggestions? Seeing as I seem to have convinced him that I’m the worst candidate out of everyone, short of the married ones,’ Dwalin said, jabbing his thumb in Bombur and Gloin’s directions.

‘Not like you to be so melodramatic. You have most certainly changed,’ Thorin replied smoothly.

‘I’m being perfectly serious,’ Dwalin said darkly. ‘I can’t … I just, can’t. I don’t know how.’

Thorin did not respond to that. There was a moment then, almost of sombre camaraderie. Neither of them had had a proper chance to learn how to communicate that kind of love with another person. Neither of them were equipped for it. Their adult lives had been full of duty and hard work and not much else.

‘Listen to him,’ Thorin said quietly. ‘He knows what he wants. And he is a great deal more patient than any dwarf.’

Dwalin sighed. That was true. Bilbo’s easy forgiveness when his name had been repeatedly slighted, his dedication despite all insult and all reason, was evidence of that. And even if Dwalin had hurt his feelings, Bilbo had still approached him first, and that showed genuine interest.

That night, instead of heading for his own bedroll, Dwalin approached Bilbo’s. Bilbo had relocated to a screened area further from the fire, and was sitting in his shirt with his jacket balled up to serve as a pillow, inspecting his waistcoat and comparing different sized, crudely-carved wooden buttons to serve as potential replacements for the ones he had lost.

He glanced up as Dwalin’s shadow fell over his hands, and his expression switched immediately from surprise, to a glimpse of emotion, and then to carefully constructed blankness.

‘Yes?’

Slightly abrupt. Not annoyed. Just clipped, and very guarded. He had not expected to be approached, not by Dwalin. That stung, but only because Dwalin didn’t want to be unapproachable. Not anymore.

‘You were right,’ Dwalin said, feeling the parallel. This must be something like how Bilbo had felt, when he was fighting to get his words out, not sure how they would be received.

‘About what?’ Bilbo murmured, looking away as he placed his waistcoat by his bedroll. He stood. He seemed almost half-dressed, in only his shirt and his pants. It was very similar to what he had worn on that first night, the night they met, except Bilbo had been in a dressing gown then. Patchwork, red and orange and yellow with a hint of brown and green … autumn colours.

‘I’m very fond of you,’ Dwalin said. Oh, no. Oh _drat_. He could feel his face warming up. What was he, a child? He hadn’t blushed in over a century.

Bilbo’s eyes widened just a fraction, and his mouth opened, then closed.

‘Fonder than I would be of a friend,’ Dwalin specified, trying to keep his face at least partially in shadow, to hide the blush.

Bilbo pressed his toes with his other foot, shifted his weight, and seemed to wonder how to respond. Dwalin prepared himself to turn and walk away, to give Bilbo the night to think about it. Bilbo, once again, had other ideas.

Bilbo took a step forward until his toes were between Dwalin’s boots. Then he leaned up, and placed a gentle, unsure kiss at the corner of Dwalin’s mouth. Dwalin paused, caught completely off-guard. Dwarves didn’t usually kiss until the first few weeks of courting had been carried out. Well-to-do dwarves didn’t, anyway. Society dwarves like Dori would probably faint out of shock.

Bilbo began to retreat. Dwalin was having none of that. He put his hands on Bilbo’s waist and followed his mouth, tilting his head a little to compensate and offered his own sure, firm kiss. A second’s hesitation, and then Bilbo’s arms were wrapped around his shoulders, Bilbo was leaning up, and it felt wonderfully as if they were apologizing to each other for the miserable first attempt earlier that day at communicating their feelings. This was better. This was perfect.

Dwalin ended up holding Bilbo tightly around the middle, Bilbo pressed against him as if they were lovers already, and Dwalin was surprised (pleasantly) because Bilbo had always seemed like such a proper hobbit, and here he was kissing him as if there was a delicious cake hidden somewhere in Dwalin’s mouth.

When they finally pulled away, Bilbo was panting slightly, and Dwalin was already making a list of things in his mind he’d like to do to make Bilbo pant some more.

‘I’m willing to try if you are,’ Bilbo said, and it was so obvious and unnecessary that Dwalin chuckled. Then, just to be sure Bilbo knew, he nodded.

‘Me too.’

Bilbo grinned. Dwalin didn’t bother returning to his own bedroll that night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn't edit this properly because i just wanted to post it. I've been unexpectedly busy lately. I intended for this chapter to be up days and days ago.

Bifur aside, there were five members of the company who knew Iglishmek. Five who could hold a conversation with him, out of thirteen dwarves, a hobbit and a wizard. A mere third of the company. No-one ever said so out loud, but Dwalin knew Bifur felt isolated in a way that even Bilbo didn’t.

Ori, the committed scribe, fascinated by languages to the point that he had gone so far as to understand basic Sindarin, could communicate fluently with Bifur. Bofur had learned the rudimentary version for Bifur, but Bifur and Bofur already knew how to speak through glances. Gandalf understood Bifur but spoke to him in the common tongue, because being unable to speak it did not mean Bifur could not understand it. Thorin, being royalty, had learned Iglishmek as part of his general lessons in his youth, and remembered enough to have a vague idea at all times what Bifur was saying. Dwalin was the only other member of the company who knew Iglishmek, as well if not better than Thorin, having sat in on many of his lessons. Even Balin did not know one swipe of a hand from another, despite being older and generally more well-read.

After the company left Hobbiton far behind, while Bilbo was still mourning his lack of a handkerchief and Dori and Nori’s hair was still immaculate and Fili and Kili were still making jokes every day, Dwalin noticed something that made him feel a little sad on Bifur’s behalf, and a little curious.

They were camping out more often than staying in inns, and when they settled their bedrolls in a clearing or under the protection of mounds of stone and the low-hanging branches of weeping willows. Bifur would always take his bedroll to the far corner, furthest away from the fire, and sit by himself carving. He carved almost every spare chance he got. Some of the toys he made were slightly monstrous, varying from quirky to downright sinister, but he seemed to enjoy it. Or perhaps it was just something to commit himself to that let him take his mind off … whatever it was he thought about.

He would leave the toys in the abandoned camp when they packed up and left in the morning. Bofur shrugged at Dwalin’s questioning glance, at the sight of Bifur carefully standing a boat-shaped wooden fish atop a rocky outcrop before tramping down to meet the rest of the group.

Dwalin went to look one day as Bifur sat by himself, slicing away doggedly at a lump of wood by the dim moonlight, chewing absently on a leaf. Bifur didn’t look up when Dwalin sat beside him to watch his hands work.

For someone with such hands, the work was delicately done. Most of Bifur’s fingers were slightly bent from being broken, his knuckles protruded, and there were little scars all over where his carving knife had slipped. His boar spear was propped up beside him on the rock, and every now and again if he needed to remove a chunk of wood and his carving knife didn’t cut it, Bifur would use the tip of the spear.

He couldn’t sand down the wood, but by the time he was finished (having taken no notice at all of Dwalin the entire time) it didn’t matter. Every notch was perfect. Every angle was precise. Bifur had taken everything into account, from the grain of the wood to the density of it, to the point that two little knots, perfectly aligned, formed realistic-looking eyes for the bird he now held in his hands.

Dwalin, on impulse, tapped the side of Bifur’s knee with his right hand to get his attention. Bifur’s gaze flickered to him.

 _Why do you leave these works of art out in the wild?_ Dwalin asked with his hands. _Why the waste?_

Bifur thought for a moment, turning the bird over in his hands. Then he glanced sideways at Dwalin again, and signed roughly, _I do not want to sell them_.

 _Why put so much time and effort into making them at all?_ Dwalin asked again. Bifur looked at the bird. Then he offered it to Dwalin. Dwalin took it, turned it in his hands, admiring it.

 _It is not a waste_ , Bifur signed. Then he stood, and went to join his cousins by the fire.

Dwalin did not know if Bifur was really lonely, or if he just liked to sit by himself when he carved. He asked Bofur once, but Bofur just shrugged.

‘I distract him too much, and Bombur takes up too much space on a seat. Everyone else just leaves him alone.’

Dwalin, after some deliberation, made a nightly habit of sitting beside Bifur and watching him. Sometimes they would share a short conversation when Dwalin first took his seat, but after a while they didn’t even need to sign to each other.

Things carried on much in this way until they reached Rivendell. The dwarves were offered separate rooms, but they camped out in one of the courtyards anyway. None of them felt comfortable sleeping separate, especially not in a place swarming with elves.

Nonetheless, Bifur found a way to sit privately late in the night after an abortive attempt to roast some green leafy thing over the furniture-fuelled campfire. Dwalin, did not accompany him that night, choosing instead to wait up for Thorin and his brother to return from their meeting with Elrond and left Bifur to himself.

Shortly after came the mountains, then the goblins, and the wargs and the eagles and they did not have any time to sit quietly for those several days. By the time Dwalin could return his attention to Bifur, they were sitting in a cave beyond the foot of the carrock and everyone was missing most of their possessions. Dwalin wondered if Bifur still had his carving knife. He left Thorin’s side to give the king space to talk privately with Bilbo (he hadn’t exactly been subtle with that hug) and search out the dwarf he really wanted to see.

Bifur was, once again, sitting by himself. He had walked somewhere around the middle of the group after they were dropped off by the eagles, but he still cut a lonely figure sitting in the cave mouth by himself, rebraiding the black and white plaits into his beard. He had undone them to wash out the blood when they stopped at the river running around the foot of the carrock.

Dwalin sat beside him. He did not know what made him do what he did next. He reached out to the side of Bifur’s head – the right side, the side that held the axe handle – and began to rebraid that side of his beard.

He knew the original shape of it off by heart. The thickness of each strand, the way the white overlapped with the black. It occurred to him that he had spent almost as much time looking at Bifur’s face as he had watching his hands, in all the time he had known him.

Bifur did not flinch, or turn away. He continued braiding the other side, carefully replacing the battered silver clasp and handing the other to Dwalin to affix when he was done.

Bifur and Dwalin had a little more in common than he’d thought they did. They were both old warriors, one a noble and one from a family of miners, but old warriors all the same, who had lost family and home and been displaced and made to fend for themselves. Dwalin had come along on the quest because Thorin, his cousin, had asked him to. Bifur had come along on the quest because Bofur, his cousin, had asked him to.

Bifur, after almost an hour of sitting outside and silently speaking to one another with their hands and the occasional Khuzdul grunt, produced a little battered object from inside his thick leather and cloth coat. It was about twice the width of Dwalin’s thumb, an inch longer than his longest finger, and carved exquisitely out of oak. It looked to have been taken from one of the pieces of furniture in Rivendell.

It was a warrior, shaped so perfectly that one might think it could come to life and march up and down Dwalin’s forearm. From its head to its boots, it was flawless.

What hit Dwalin hardest was its armour. Its helm and shoulder guards, breastplate and gauntlets, were specific to the armour worn by the guards in Erebor in the days before Smaug. It was a perfect replica of the dwarves Dwalin remembered seeing, standing at the gates and patrolling the outer walls in their military finery.

Dwalin looked from the figure to Bifur’s frank face. He had always assumed Bifur had spent his life perhaps in the Iron Hills, Ered Luin, but not Erebor. That was one of the few things that set him and his cousins apart; they had no personal stake in the quest. They weren’t family, nor did they share an origination with the rest of the company.

He took the little figure carefully, cradled it in his hands, staring at a shape he thought he’d only see again in memory, or briefly one last time before perishing in dragonfire. Bifur placed a hand on his arm, and Dwalin placed his hand over Bifur’s, feeling slightly shaken for a moment.

When Thorin came out to seek his second-in-command before they packed up and followed Gandalf to his mysterious friend’s house, he found Dwalin and Bifur signing to each other with grimly serious looks on their faces. That was not so unusual. Thorin had become quickly accustomed to the bond slowly but surely growing between his old friend and Bifur. What surprised him was the way they were speaking.

Not in Iglishmek; that, he could understand. What surprised him was that they were doing it one-handed. Their other hands were clasped together, tightly as if they were brothers, or husband and wife. Thorin thought he could see a little pale shape, like wood, sticking out between Dwalin’s thumb and Bifur’s forefinger.

They stood to address their king, but they did not disentangle their fingers.

When the group set off, Dwalin and Bifur walked side-by-side. Neither of them believed in wasting time on “doing things in appropriate time”, not when they weren’t sure if they’d be alive tomorrow or the following week. Bofur was cheerier that usual. Bombur, despite being hungry, smiled at the ground and hummed to himself. Balin practically glowed like a pregnant dwarrowdam, much less subtle than Bifur’s cousins, grinning outright at Dwalin’s back, whispering in Bilbo’s ear when Bilbo asked him why the sudden change in atmosphere.

By the time they reached Beorn’s house, Dwalin had borrowed a small knife from Fili, and set to a piece of oak he’s luckily come by. His skills weren’t as fine as Bifur’s, but he knew exactly what he was going to make as his formal exchange of courting gifts.

He still carried that little bird for reference, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, un-betad. I've had too much work this week to get online, which is why this and the next chapter are late. Sorry about that, and i hope you enjoy :)

Dwalin was normally very good at controlling his feelings. He could isolate and compartmentalise, use his anger when he needed it and shut it down when it became an inconvenience, feel happy in the short spaces of time they had to feel happy, crush sadness when it threatened to overwhelm him, especially if he had something important to focus on. Something to use as a compass or a pivotal point. Erebor had become that compass.

He knew it was the same for Thorin. So when Thorin started acting strangely, losing control here and there over his feelings, and all of these little losses of control became more and more obviously centred around one person (read: hobbit), Dwalin used Thorin as his point of comparison. Because the very same thing was happening to him.

Only it wasn’t the hobbit that had Dwalin snapping and behaving irrationally. It was a dwarf. A completely unlikely dwarf, who possessed nothing to attract Dwalin. No great wealth of good looks. No apparent sense of propriety or breeding or great intelligence. For the first time, Dwalin was unable to drive someone from his mind because they were too charismatic.

Because, if he had anything, Bofur had boatloads of charisma. He was the kind of fellow who could easily say anything, out of a plain underlying belief that no-one was going to take him seriously. Dwalin listened. And sometimes, he’d find evidence of something else underneath all the mud. Something it made sense to be attracted to.

Bofur liked Bilbo first. He saw potential in him first. Probably because he was used to looking. He was more observant than he seemed. Bofur’s was a mind unclouded by doubt and mistrust, especially for a dwarf. Bordering on soft-hearted. But that soft-heartedness was sweetness in disguise, and his cheerfulness belied a desire to make others happy. To give his older cousin Bifur something other than vengeance to live for. To make light of their worst fears until even Thorin could crack a smile when Bofur came up with more and more outlandish descriptions of Smaug in an attempt to make Bilbo faint again.

In short, Bofur was smarter than he looked, kinder than he seemed, and more generous than he outwardly behaved. He hid his goodness behind jokes and irreverence. And he looked kind of adorable in that stupid hat.

But, he had a weakness for making others the butt of his jokes. He was good enough to make himself the butt of jokes as well, but he never spared anyone else. And Dwalin out to have remembered that for his own sake.

There must have been a stage where Dwalin let his guard down. Perhaps in the goblin caves when he was paying a little more attention to Bofur than to where they were going, perhaps after when they were clinging to the tree and Dwalin let his hand remain on Bofur’s arm for a little longer than necessary after helping him scoot further up a branch. Whatever it was, Bofur had _noticed_. And where before, he had been tolerably attractive and there had been a safe wall between them, there was now a barrage of looks and bawdy  
songs being directed like a blaring horn in Dwalin’s direction.

He had never wanted to punch someone so cute so hard.

Bofur was utterly shameless. He treated sex the way he treated dragons, hobbits and elven furniture; nothing was off-limits. Making jokes about Dwalin’s knuckledusters and spanking wasn’t enough, he had to muse aloud about the size of Dwalin’s palm and the average dwarven arse as well, _using his own for reference_. Then, in case that wasn’t bloody obvious enough, he had to pile on a few winks at Dwalin, so many that Bilbo felt obliged to clear his throat and ask loudly if Bofur had a speck of dust or maybe a whole twig in his eye.

“Croquet”, thanks to a single comment unfortunately remembered by a slightly tanked Bilbo at Beorn’s home, became synonymous with “balls” and Bofur wasted no time in inventing a wealth of dirty jokes, mostly naturally centred on Dwalin.

Thorin, to Fili and Kili’s thrilled terror, Gloin and Dori’s outright fury and everyone else’s mortified amusement, got his very own personalized innuendo in the form of “conkers”. Bilbo shrank in his chair and turn bright red to the tips of his ears until finally, at Bofur’s suggestion he give a demonstration, he erupted into mead-drenched giggles and fell off his chair, landing instantly asleep on the floor.

Thorin, more a gentledwarf than anyone had ever personally seen him, picked Bilbo up and carried him to his own bedroll at the edge of the fire’s glow. He hesitated only for a second before removing his blue coat and draping it gently over the hobbit’s quietly dozing form. Then he rose, glanced to the company with a silent challenge that none of them met, and went outside for a smoke.

Bofur, immediately needing to break the silence, looked dead at Dwalin and then perfectly imitated Bilbo’s wobbling flop onto the floor.

The quiet tenderness of the moment was dissolved as the company broke into another round of easy laughter at Bofur’s antics. Dwalin did not miss he pointed look Balin gave him. Bofur remained on the floor, and Dwalin’s feelings rose in his throat, and he could not compartmentalise or control them and it drove him absolutely up the wall. That just wasn’t fair. Thorin was meant to be his point of reference, damn it.

Well, fine. Where Thorin led, he followed. That was the general rule.

Dwalin stood, walked around the table to where Bofur still lay on his back, and picked him up. Then, just to dispel any sweet sensitivity that remained in the air after the way Thorin had bridal-carried Bilbo, Dwalin slung Bofur over his shoulder.

Instead of heading to the bedrolls, he marched in the opposite direction to the other end of the house where they’d have some real privacy. Cheers and whistles took the place of amiable laughter, and the embarrassed complaints of a few were drowned out by the clapping that followed when Dwalin dropped a flushed and unbalanced Bofur on his feet some distance away, appreciating the flush in his cheeks and the shine in his eyes, to pull him by his hand out of sight and to the private safety of the shadows.

Because he would carry Bofur as long as it could still be a joke. As long as they were laughing. But there was a seriousness in this; a sincerity that Dwalin needed Bofur to acknowledge, even if it just meant walking beside him instead of being carried. Because if Dwalin was pulling him by his hand, Bofur could still pull away. Could tell Dwalin that it was just a joke. One last chance.

Bofur skipped ahead, keeping a tight grip on Dwalin’s fingers, and pulled him along around the corner. The moment they were alone together, Bofur took off his hat.

‘You took yer bloody time,’ was all he said. Then he launched himself at Dwalin.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another late un-betad chapter. This pattern will hopefully change in January when i have less shifts.

“How” the was first question most of them asked. _When did you look at him and go “actually, you’re not just a vain old fool”? What makes him so different from everyone else, aside from his obsessive attention to his looks? Between mothering Ori and coping with Nori, do you really think he has space in his life left for you?_

And Dwalin would never answer, because it wasn’t even something he could properly articulate to Dori. He could barely articulate it to himself. He had always loved his own brother. They were absolutely fine and that there was never anything lacking in their bond. But he had realized, strangely, that he wished at least once Balin would have fussed over him the way Dori fussed over his brothers. At least once. He knew he’d have attacked Balin if he tried, especially in his youth. Dwalin had always been taller despite being younger, and he and Balin had just about always been equals, despite being thirty years apart in age.

But as a result he did not know what it felt like to be looked after and obsessed over, to have someone tutt and brush his hair back into place. Not to be treated like a child, lord no, he’d go mad. But to be _nurtured_. Dwarves weren’t the nurturing type, not really, and his parents had taken responsibility for him insofar as his training and education was concerned. When he injured himself, he had been told that it would heal. That time healed. That scars were evidence of having survived. No-one had ever just held him or comforted him for the sake of his feelings. And for a long time, he thanked Aule for that.

And then along came Dori, following anxiously behind his brave and naïve youngest brother and the conniving middle brother, determined to allow them their autonomy but equally determined to be there, lest they falter or fall into danger. Loyalty always caught Dwalin’s attention and respect. But once his respect was gained by Dori, it seemed his interest saw fit to follow, and follow it did, to the point that in idle moments, Dwalin thought about what kind of husband Dori would make. He’d probably be the worrying kind, the kind of keep a partner in line through sheer bossiness and hand-wringing concern, the kind of husband who could keep a household running efficiently even if the very walls were closing in. Dwalin imagined leaving his boots in the entrance hall just to annoy Dori, and Dori losing his temper and thwacking him in the arm with a wooden spoon and telling him off before putting on a pot of chamomile tea and giving him a shoulder rub to work out the kinks of a long days’ work.

Then the real world would tap Dwalin on the shoulder and he’d be reminded that both of them were single and highly unlikely to get married unless it was _after_ they retook Erebor, and _assuming_ they retook Erebor. And even then they probably wouldn’t get married to each other anyway. Dwalin tried to ignore the twinge he felt whenever he reminded himself of that particular detail.

It wasn’t self-pity. It was being realistic. Dori was proper, reserved and refined, concerned with appearances. He was a mild thing, but he was an impressive fighter too. That, Dwalin believed, was where his prepossession lay. He was the only elegant dwarf Dwalin had ever met. And that was why it was unrealistic to think they could ever marry.

Sure, Dwalin was closely related to the royal family. Sure, he was the king’s closest friend. But he was also a drinker, a brawler, a soldier and a surly old scarred thing with a history of bad hair-related decisions. And even if Dori could look past all that as well as his gradually increasing collection of tattoos, Dwalin was still male, and two-male couples were rare, despite there simply being less dwarrowdams.

It was something he could cope with, even if it wasn’t comfortable or pleasant, keeping Dori at arm’s length throughout the journey. He didn’t actively push Dori away, not even when Dori saw fit to keep close to him in moments of conflict – and it did absolute wonders for his ego, knowing that even when Dori’s attention was half on Ori at those times, that the other half was on staying by Dwalin where apparently it was safer – and for the entirety of their trip, all the way to the Lonely Mountain, Dwalin managed to keep his feelings invisible and to himself. Even when the others began pairing off, or showing preferences, or even shamelessly dallying with anything pretty that moved (Kili was young and he’d hopefully get over it, even if Ori, Nori, Bofur and Bilbo didn’t), Dwalin maintained a respectful charade of strict brotherhood between himself and Dori. Even when Dori started, as a general rule, walking within three meters of Dwalin at all times, Dwalin only ever addressed him with coolly polite deference.

It was poetic, Dori later gushed to friends and visitors, the setting of their courting when it finally occurred.

The entire treasure hall was resplendent. One hundred years and a dragon’s occupation, regardless of what it had done to the surrounding area, had done nothing to dull the gleam and glow of thousands of tonnes of gold, silver, brass, diamond, ruby, emerald, amethyst and sapphire. The expanse of it seemed like an island, an endless range, splayed out in the belly of the mountain.

Bilbo had commented quietly, as if he had not been the one to see it first and was seeing it all anew in the gleam in Thorin’s eyes, that the most decorative stones he’d seen in his life up until then was a pile of jade and opal in a box on a jeweller’s cart, being bartered in the Shire for the equivalent of a bag of apples or a tray of fresh strawberries per ounce.

Dwalin had found Dori atop a small hillock of coins, watching Ori roll down it, clutching his book to his chest and whooping excitedly. Dori looked, for want of a better word, dazed. Dwalin knew exactly how he felt.

‘Makes a dwarf think,’ he said, seating himself beside the quiet figure. Dori still looked mildly bedraggled. There hadn’t been a chance for him to fix his beard and hair the way he liked, not even in Laketown when they at least had rooms and beds and reasonable meals. He had made himself as presentable as he could, which for Dori was always at least twice as presentable as Dwalin.

‘About what, may I ask?’ Dori asked. His slightly glazed eyes focussed when Dwalin scooted over, unable to resist seeking a little warmth and maybe a little guilty pleasure in sitting close.

‘The future,’ Dwalin said, trying not to be too cryptic or too obvious. He really hadn’t meant to approach Dori about this. He didn’t want to know where Dori stood on the matter of marriage, if he was a widower, or if he never planned to wed at all. Dwalin wanted to keep his fantasies alive. But they were sitting once more in Erebor, in his old home, _finally,_ and Dori was seated on a big pile of gold and he looked perfect. Dwalin led down his guard. The dragon was still alive and out there, after all. Maybe they’d be dead soon anyway and he wouldn’t have to live with his foolishness much longer.

‘I’m afraid there’s no lady waiting for me back in the Blue Mountains,’ Dori said, a little archly.

‘I meant no offence,’ Dwalin said. ‘And I wasn’t talking about a lady.’

There was a brief silence, then Dori glanced across at Dwalin. Ori, as if sensing his chance the moment it arrived, scuttled away from the bottom of the gold pile and disappeared around a corner. Dori let him go.

‘You’ve never brought it up before.’

‘We hadn’t made it all the way here before. And,’ Dwalin said, trailing off. ‘And?’ Dori prompted. His hands were moving restlessly on his knees, thumbs wrapping together then parting, fingers tapping out an irregular beat. He looked much more anticipatory than Dwalin had expected, and it threw him off.

‘We’re different, you and I,’ Dwalin said. He tried not to sound defeated. He failed.

‘Difference need not precipitate incompatibility,’ Dori said. He sounded irritated. ‘Perhaps we could do each other a world of good, had you ever thought of that? We compensate for one another’s shortcomings in battle, the way your axes only reach so far while I can swing my bolas far enough to kill an enemy before they get near me, or you for that matter. I know you’ve noticed. Well perhaps we could do that in our personal lives too, if we ever shared a personal life.’ Dori shut himself up then, clearly having said far more than he intended, and going slightly pink in the cheeks. He turned to resolutely face the wall, jaw clenched, and Dwalin realized something.

Dori had been doing the same thing he had. Where he had been imagining Dori running his home and giving him backrubs and fussing over him, Dori had been envisioning making a home for Dwalin to return to, doting on him and being, if not equals, then at least partners.

Dwalin slid his hand across the pile of coins, brushed his fingers up the side of Dori’s leg (earning an indignant squeak) and then took Dori’s hand in his.

‘I never thought you’d ask,’ Dwalin said earnestly. Dori looked sideways at him, and, sensing no jest in his expression, squeezed his hand in return.

‘I was hoping you’d make the first move,’ Dori murmured, but there was no heat in it. Just slightly embarrassed hesitance. Almost shyness. Dwalin smiled, partly to comfort Dori, and partly because he genuinely hadn’t thought Dori would ask. Because that was the only roadblock, wasn’t it? The assumption, apparently foolish, that Dori would not deign to have a dwarf like Dwalin for a husband.

Years later, Dori would find out that Dwalin had had marriage on his mind the whole time, and descended into a barely-lucid froth of emotion. It wasn’t often that Dori could boast about his husband being romantic or respectable.

But even if he could boast about Dori looking after him, doting on and nurturing him, Dwalin wouldn’t. That was something he would happily greedily keep all to himself.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! -_-;
> 
> I hope you enjoy this one.

For two people who looked nothing alike, Fili and Kili were astonishingly similar in spirit. Fili was more responsible and thoughtful when it counted while Kili was more impulsive, but they shared an uncontrollable curiosity that could only be reined in if they were separated, which was borderline impossible, or watched very closely, which, in Thorin’s absence, was Dwalin’s job.

Dwalin reasoned to himself that they needed a disciplinary figure at all times to manage their boundless enthusiasm. Well .. semi-disciplinary. Someone to keep an eye on them. An authority figure, but one who they could be intimate with, one who was at once a leader to be respected, one with a figurative (and occasionally literal) hold on their very balls, and who at the same time could be approached on a personal level. And there was only so much Thorin could do.

Truth was, Dwalin needed a reason for his own sake. He knew he shouldn’t be seducing Thorin’s nephews. There _wasn’t_ a justification for it. But he damn well couldn’t stop, so he needed something to tell himself when he was in his own bed, alone, staring at the wall and trying not to remember the way Kili’s mouth fell open in a silent scream when he came, or the way Fili dropped his head onto the pillows and sobbed and begged when Dwalin had him on his knees. Or the way they’d grin devilishly at each other before turning on him, when Dwalin was lucky enough to have them both at once.

It was just sex, mostly. If something as regular and affectionate as what they had could be called “just sex”. They never said anything along the lines of “I love you”. They never discussed courting, or telling anyone, or spending time together outside training or bedsport. But Dwalin knew that neither brother had lain with another lover since they started sleeping with him. And Dwalin hadn’t taken anyone else to bed either.

This peculiar set-up made the beginning of the quest mildly awkward, not least of all for Dwalin. The brothers did not seem to have taken into account how impossible it would be to keep carrying on the way they were when the quest began.

At least, not if the way they cornered him in Master Baggin’s home was any indication.

‘Mister Dwalin,’ Kili purred, in an obscene repetition of his greeting earlier that evening. He had been just waiting for the opportunity to use that warm, low tone of voice, Dwalin could tell.

‘You’ve been keeping your distance,’ Fili reprimanded. It was purely theatrics, they all knew it, but Fili never could get enough of irritating Dwalin, not when he knew it could end up with him being tied to something and thoroughly “taught a lesson in manners”.

Dwalin didn’t want to believe the cheek, but he knew them too well. That odd little beardless fellow got riled up when someone tried to use his doily-whatsit as a napkin; Dwalin didn’t want to think of the fuss if he found three dwarves getting down and dirty in one of his guest rooms. Come to think of it, he didn’t want to think of the havoc if Thorin found his best friend getting down and dirty with his nephews. Not that that was going to stop the nephews.

‘Not tonight, lads,’ Dwalin tried to say firmly. But Kili had nuzzled into his neck and was tugging restlessly at his buckles while Fili straddled one of his trunk-like legs and threatened to shove him back onto the too-soft mattress.

‘What, had too much to drink?’ Fili murmured. ‘Too much indulgence at the dinner table? Can’t perform, is that it? And to think, a big strapping fellow like yerself.’

Dwalin grunted and reminded himself forcefully that the walls here were thin. Fili knew he was bullshitting, and he knew Dwalin knew he was bullshitting. He’d have to, what with the way he was rubbing himself against Dwalin’s traitorous erection.

‘We’re not going to be able to do this on the road,’ Dwalin said through clenched teeth. Kili had divested him of the straps running across his body and the furs underneath. Dwalin caught a hold on his hands, but Kili simply took it as permission to stick Dwalin’s fingers in his mouth.

‘A very good reason why we should take advantage of tonight,’ Fili urged breathlessly. Dwalin felt something slide across his hip, and made the mistake of glancing down. Fili, impatiently, had undone his trousers and was grinding against Dwalin’s thigh like a dog in heat.

He lifted his face to the ceiling and shut his eyes tight. _Mahal, give me strength. Or give me nothing, and take away these two lovely nuisances from me_.

The nuisances in question weren’t to be denied. They pushed Dwalin back onto the bed. Barely in time, Dwalin smothered a barked laugh as they wrestled him out of any clothing that got in the way, leaving anything else where it was before descending on him with all the ravenous attention of starving cats, licking, mouthing and rubbing where they pleased.

 _Well_ , Dwalin reasoned to himself, trying to assuage the casual rise of guilt that had accompanied these couplings (or triplings, really) for the past three decades or so. _At least I’m keeping an eye on them_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Naturally.
> 
> Also by the way, just assume dwarves don’t have any beef with sex before marriage.
> 
> Also, this is un-betad. I bashed it out last night after realizing i hadn't updated this fic in a while.

Ori. Bookish and quiet, and that looked to be all there was to him. But every now and again a flash of fire would appear, in battle or in speech, before Dori bustled in and smothered it.

Dwalin wondered sometimes what kind of dwarf Ori would have grown up to be, if his mother hen wasn’t always there to stifle his personality. But he was being harsh on Dori. If Ori was his responsibility, Dwalin knew, he’d want to keep him close and protected too, maintain that sweet innocence as long as possible.

But he wanted the fire, all the same. Oh, how he wanted it.

So Dwalin muscled in, and felt a little bad for it, but Dori saw it and, to a degree, Dori let him. Dori let Dwalin lend Ori a weapon every now and again when the situation called for something bigger than a slingshot. Dori let Dwalin sit by Ori, walk by him, watch over him. Maybe it was a small relief to know that someone else was looking after Ori, or maybe it was silent recognition, approval? of Dwalin’s interest. Whatever the case was, Dori didn’t even let Nori alone with their youngest brother for five minutes, and Dwalin did not underestimate the trust that was being placed in him.

So he did things properly. He did things slowly. He let himself be a possible mentor, a pillar of strength, no more than a potential teacher if that was what Ori needed. And when the pull between them strengthened, when Ori sought Dwalin out to be near him, Dwalin let himself become a greater presence. He presumed to be a close friend, and it was unusual friendship by anyone’s standards, but maybe that was because he knew all along. The friendship was a formality, a prelude to something else. A step more towards finding that fire, seeing if it was the kind that burned or the kind that warmed.

Nori sauntered over to Dwalin in Bard’s house, when Dori was briefly looking over Ori for potential injuries. Dwalin was both irritated by the presumption, and pleased at the evidence that yes, Nori _was_ all about family at least in this way. He was even a little pleased on Ori’s behalf, and hell if it wasn’t a sign, that he was feeling things on Ori’s behalf. At least Nori was finally showing evidence of having noticed. At least Nori was finally showing evidence of _caring_.

Nori knew how to posture. He knew how to present a thinly veiled threat. But he also knew, and so did Dwalin, that if it came to fisticuffs, Dwalin would flatten him. But Nori “had a quick word” anyway, because Ori was his little brother, and the closeness between the old fighter and the young scribe was becoming so clear that even Thorin had taken to raising an eyebrow teasingly whenever the pair sat together.

Dori was next, though he was more dignified about it.

‘He talks about you quite a bit, you know. He’s not the type to talk about people lightly,’ Dori said lightly, just low enough that no-one else could hear even while they stood leaning against the high table as Thorin and Bard relayed their slightly differing accounts of the day of Smaug’s arrival to Bilbo, each apparently trying to either outdo the other or impress the hobbit the most. Bilbo looked endearingly flabbergasted by all the attention. Even Bofur was looking concerned.

It was an interesting parallel. Everyone who fancied Bilbo seemed to be so much bigger than him, the same way Dwalin was so much bigger than Ori.

‘I’ll do my utmost never to be undeserving of his attention. Or his affection,’ Dwalin said, tacking the addition onto the end of the sentence after a moment’s thought. Dori looked almost ready to scowl, until he examined the look on Dwalin’s face, and seemed to find it genuine.

‘He has become very attached to you,’ Dori said, a little more quietly. Dwalin’s eyes swept the room briefly, and found Nori keeping Ori occupied at the other end of the room. This must have been a planned conversation then, if Dori was willing to rope Nori into distracting the young one for the sake of some private words. Dwalin decided to do Dori the honours of a formal statement. More or less.

‘My feelings toward Ori are pure and noble,’ Dwalin said seriously, looking Dori in the eyes. ‘He is a good lad, intelligent and with a strong spirit. I have no intention of taking him for granted. The moment we retake the mountain, the moment I have enough gold to cover him in head to toe, I’ll give your brother a courting gift worthy of his great heart.’

Dori looked Dwalin up and down, shrewd and calculating. Then he raised a finger and prodded Dwalin’s breastbone firmly with it.

‘There is _no_ metal or jewel in all of Middle Earth equal in worth to his precious heart,’ Dori hissed. Then he straightened himself and sniffed. ‘But well spoken, mister Dwalin.’

With that, Dori turned on his heel and strode off to see that Nori didn’t corrupt their baby brother any more than had been strictly necessary. Dwalin leaned back against a wooden beam and smiled to himself. The preliminaries were just about over, then.

Now he could get to seeing about that fire.

 ...

A howl broke the night. No, not a howl. More of a gasping wail, a breathless cry of delight and shock. Half sigh, half high moan. An adolescent voice, young but old enough.

Bilbo sat bolt upright and was confused for a moment about where he was. It was dark, there was an expanse of space all around him, but it felt so indoors, so enclosed. That was right. The mountain. And it wasn’t necessarily night. It could be the middle of the day, and he wouldn’t know.

Sound travelled quickly and echoed in such a huge space, unhindered by the movement and murmur of thousands of living bodies. And that sound hadn’t been too far away.

Nori and Dori looked a combination of outraged and embarrassed, like they were about to leap up and charge off in the direction of the cry. Dori wrapped his pillow tightly around his head instead and rolled over. Nori glowered furiously at the wall and started sharpening his knives, red in the face. Fili and Kili chuckled with raised eyebrows and pretended to ignore the muffled sounds as they lay back down on their blankets.

The company were sleeping all together in one of the larger rooms spared from the dragon’s rampaging. All the company, save two.

Bilbo lay back down, snuggled into the arms of Bofur, who had barely moved after the cry roused the room, except for the massive grin now splitting his face.

‘Dwalin and Ori?’ Bilbo whispered. Bofur moved his arm to pull his hat down over his ears,  then wrapped it around Bilbo’s waist again. ‘Are having a very good time, sounds like,’ Bofur whispered back, burying his nose in Bilbo’s hair.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I made Balin twenty-five years older than Thorin for plot reasons. According to Tolkien, Thorin is actually meant to be older than Balin. But according to Peter Jackson, the fangirls get what the fangirls want *swoon*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might as well just admit to not having a beta. I hope there aren't any mistakes in this.

Theirs was a relationship with an unhealthy start and a shaky ending. What was in between lasted for almost a hundred years, and defined them in ways they scarcely ever spoke about.

They would not have gotten to know each other at all if Dwalin hadn’t flattened Thorin in training on that fateful morning.

Thorin had never before been beaten. His classes were in the morning, between his lessons in language and the politics. Balin was an expert diplomat with a patience and a wily ability to read people’s faces that had landed him a job in the political constituency at the tender age of ninety-five. He was responsible for Thorin’s lessons in statesmanship, and he would have preferred a job anywhere else. Before seeing him lead his people on the battlefield of Azanulbizar, in fact, Balin struggled to think of a single likeable thing about the arrogant, overly privileged, highly-strung dwarf prince.

Naturally, when he heard a seventy-year-old Thorin boast of being utterly unchallenged at the top of his class, Balin’s thoughts turned to his brother.

Dwalin was the same age as Thorin, and likewise was unbeaten at the top of his class. But, unlike Thorin, Dwalin had had to fight tooth and claw to get there, and his classmates weren’t afraid of what the king would do to them if they accidentally broke one of Dwalin’s limbs. Unlike Thorin, Dwalin won his teacher’s favour by being naturally skilled, not by being naturally royal. And unlike Thorin, Dwalin didn’t let people treat him nicely just because he was a noble.

So Balin mentioned one afternoon to some of Thorin’s other tutors (including Thorin’s trainer who was pretending not to listen) that Dwalin, who he was very proud of, was doing very well and that in fact he frequently served as a challenging sparring partner the boys from other classes, and that he just wished there was someone who could give Dwalin a run for his money because, really, the boy was getting a big head.

The next day, Dwalin was invited to join Thorin’s training session. And Thorin, by then, had heard of this supposedly unbeatable young warrior. Sensing a new chance to prove his worth and his skill, the prince introduced himself by asking Dwalin if he’d care to verify the rumours of his strength, or if he was just going to keep standing there like a sack of rocks.

Dwalin verified the rumours, and Thorin limped for a week.

It was Dwalin that Thorin outwardly hated the most and tried his hardest to defeat. Their trainer paired them in sparring sessions so often that, after a while, they didn’t even bother sparring with anyone else. It became their routine.

‘You’re good for something, brute,’ Thorin spat occasionally, ‘even if you’re only good for a punching bag.’

‘Aye, that’d be true,’ Dwalin would reply. ‘If you could actually hit me, you smug little twit.’

Then came the dragon, and after that the battle at the gates of Moria, and though Thorin had lingering resentment for Dwalin’s unabashed talent, he came to rely on it like a crutch. As he mourned his brother and his grandfather in the coming days, weeks and months, he found himself grateful at the mercy that Dwalin, dear rival Dwalin, had survived.

It wasn’t until twenty years after their first meeting that Thorin even hinted that perhaps it was Dwalin, and his own desire to beat Dwalin, that drove him to focus his efforts and his attention in his lessons and finally begin to earn his own title of dedicated student. And after thirty years, Thorin admitted in person that maybe it was a secret admiration of Dwalin as a fighter that made him push himself, that made him try harder, that made him into the warrior he became. That maybe it was their little competition that prepared Thorin, in some small way, for growing up.

On the road their lives were difficult. Balin went to see if he could ingratiate himself in the courts of other dwarves and provide financially for himself and his brother, salvage their good names somehow, but even when Thorin fell to blacksmithing in the towns of men, Dwalin stayed by his side.

‘You’re good for something, brute,’ Thorin began to say one night, filthy from the forge and unwilling to waste water on cleaning himself when his nephews, princes in their own right, were thirsty in the next house over and living on their mother’s rationed food.

Dwalin waited for Thorin to finish his sentence, mutely helping Thorin to tug off his boots. The unfinished words hung in the air that night, and Thorin leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Dwalin’s. His sigh seemed to shiver through his lips.

‘I cannot do this anymore,’ he whispered. His eyes were closed. He was still young then, but he looked old. He looked exhausted. Dwalin had never, before then, seen Thorin give up before. He didn’t like it. He harrumphed.

‘I’ve had enough of your obsessing over your reputation. One minute you’re angry about not being top o’ the class, the next you’re pissy because someone’s asking you to work a forge.’

Thorin opened his eyes. His forehead was still pressed to Dwalin’s. The impact of those lapis lazuli orbs at such proximity made Dwalin blush and clear his throat.

‘I don’t have my brother’s clever way with words. I talk with my axes. But I don’t have to be clever to tell you you’re being a dunce.’

Thorin, at any other time, would have narrowed his eyes and punched Dwalin hard enough for his ring – one of the few things he had never been able to give up – to break the skin of Dwalin’s cheek. But he didn’t even raise an eyebrow. He simply stared, as if he’d be willing to accept anything Dwalin said to him, so long as it was an insult.

Dwalin harrumphed again and moved away. Thorin leaned forward, seeking the contact, then withdrew and leaned back into the chair, slumping uncharacteristically.

‘What then, d’you want me to feel sorry for you?’ Dwalin asked as he rose to his feet, voice raised. ‘Fishing for comforting words? You can stuff it. Mope all you like, you’re still a prince. Have a cry while yer at it. Just remember that being humbled isn’t the same as being powerless.’

He was just warming up, really. He would have kept pacing, kept telling Thorin off, if Thorin hadn’t leapt to his feet and grabbed him by the shoulders. For a split second he thought maybe Thorin was trying to headbutt him and miscalculated terribly, but then Thorin didn’t pull away, their mouths remained joined, and Dwalin realized that he wasn’t pulling away either. It wasn’t really their way, for Dwalin to pull away. Thorin did what he liked, punched, kicked, hollered, and Dwalin stood there and took it before landing a few choice blows of his own.

And that was exactly how “this” came to pass. This whatever-it-was, seeking comfort, seeking affection, respite, relief, release. Thorin took what he needed, and Dwalin took not a single step back. Sometimes it was simply a kiss, like that night, albeit a ferocious and needy kiss involving lots of tongue and panic about the state of their friendship. Dwalin got a stiff one and Thorin got a split lip and they both felt terrible about it afterwards. And sometimes, like a few nights later, Dwalin got fed up with Thorin’s agonizing and bent him over a chair, gripped his hair in one hand, tore open their trousers with the other and showed him the difference between being buggered and being employed in a smithy, because he was really getting tired of Thorin’s choice of words.

Sometimes they woke in the same bed. It was a silent agreement between them that whoever woke first would get dressed and get out before the other awoke. And sometimes, when they woke at the same time, they would both pretend to be asleep for a few minutes and just lay there, wrapped in each other’s arms.

They never gave a name to it. It was just something they did, like sparring. It was something that was nobody’s business but theirs. And when Thorin managed to settle his people in the Blue Mountains and his oldest nephew started growing a beard and Dwalin travelled away for months at a time, they didn’t do it nearly quite so often as they used to. Balin met up with them more often, and the world became a less dreary place, though Thorin never quite lost his haunted look.

But he did look a little less haunted on the days when Dwalin returned from wherever he’d been, and they spent the night re-learning each other.

It was always a small comfort for Dwalin, even though they never progressed beyond the level of friendship, not formally anyway, that Thorin never tried for the top. Thorin lay down or rolled onto his front or bent over, and spread his legs without hesitation. Dwalin had set the tone that first night years ago, after all. Thorin may have become a great warrior and be able to best Dwalin in a sparring ring every now and then, but in this way, their hierarchy was permanently reversed. This was the only time Thorin was allowed to throw off his crown, drop his heavy burden, and surrender. This was the only time Thorin was allowed to scream, to beg, to be ruled. And yet it was all of it under his control. He was safe and secure when Dwalin had him. He was only a servant if he wanted to be. He was only powerless when he wanted to be. And he wanted to be powerless, so long as it was with Dwalin.

It intoxicated them both, and perhaps that was why they couldn’t stop.

‘You’re good for something, brute,’ Thorin whispered, mouth hovering over Dwalin’s cock while his hand squeezed and stroked methodically. He seemed mesmerized, though Dwalin was pretty sure by now he knew the placement of every vein by heart. ‘Even if you’re only good for a quick fuck.’

‘Aye, that’d be true,’ Dwalin murmured, bunching Thorin’s hair in his fist and pushing his face down. ‘If you didn’t need me, you lusty little twit.’


End file.
